


Between a Lock and a High Place

by Crystia



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-02
Updated: 2017-10-06
Packaged: 2018-07-11 21:18:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,460
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7070728
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crystia/pseuds/Crystia
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Draco Malfoy, locked away in a tower. </p><p>Is he a werewolf? A Horcrux? An illegitimate love child? A death eater in disguise? </p><p>Harry is going to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> [ ffnet version also available ](https://www.fanfiction.net/s/11095952/1/Between-a-Lock-and-a-High-Place)
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Harry Potter defeated the Dark Lord with the wand of Cepheus Malfoy, an unfortunate third-year dragged into a vicious war.

Harry had never liked the Malfoys, Cepheus included. The few times Harry had seen him, he’d come across as a spoiled little hellion, talking about his father and shouting how the heir would kill the mudbloods. His father had slipped that diary to Ginny in the first place. No, Harry didn’t like the Malfoys.

But no amount of brattiness could vindicate Cepheus’s suffering. Harry couldn’t hate him even when he’d disarmed the headmaster, a sobbing mess of a job. Voldemort had threatened a child to punish the father, and it was hard to hate him after that. Cepheus had been twelve at the time.

The trials to prevent the incarceration of Cepheus and Narcissa had finally finished, making this visit the last time he’d need to speak to the kid. His fingers grazed the boy’s wand; the hawthorne felt warm at his touch, as though anticipating the reunion with its proper owner.

He never wanted to set foot in Malfoy Manor again, but he couldn’t ask the kid to meet him in public, especially when he had his wand. Their affluence allowed them a degree of political acceptance, but with the current public opinion, Cepheus should stay out of sight. Many people who’d suffered during the war would target the Malfoys. 

So Harry channeled his inner Gryffindor, ready to face his past and tie up loose ends. With Lucius incarcerated and Voldemort dead, he reasoned, he had nothing to fear: the Manor itself wouldn’t do him any harm.

Then again, as a magical house, it just might. Harry chose not to think about it.

He trailed after the house elf who let him in, shivering as he came in from the late November cold, untying his scarf and draping it loosely around his neck. The hallway was nowhere near as dark and terrible as when the Snatchers had brought them in, but it still had a dreary ambiance. Harry could almost see its former grandeur, how it could have been someone’s childhood home, luxurious if not welcoming. But a sadness clung to its walls, its gloomy chandeliers, and Harry prayed that the house elf wouldn’t lead him into the room where Dobby had died.

She didn’t; the house elf gave a polite, “I will fetch the young master, sir, Harry Potter, sir,” and left him in a parlour that he’d never seen before. It was in an out-of-the-way, rarely-used corridor; before Harry had walked in, the elf had given a discrete snap of the fingers, vanishing away a layer of dust. She peeked at Harry anxiously, checking if he’d seen, and he feigned ignorance.

The wait took a while. Harry sat in one of the grand chairs, then stood and paced, restless and uneasy in the former home of a Death Eater. Logically he knew Lucius was locked away in Azkaban, and Narcissa hadn’t sent him to his death even when given the perfect chance. Cepheus was only thirteen years old, and a jittery mess after the war besides.

Who else could there possibly be?

Growing impatient and wanting to distract himself from the harrowing memories the manor stirred up—perhaps this hadn’t been such a good idea—he wandered to the door, tugging it open and peering out. 

Wandering would test his luck, given that he could stumble across a room that he did know, but a morbid fascination drove him, never having been in another dark pureblood home aside from Grimmauld Place. His footsteps tapped out a hesitant trail of sound as he drifted down the hall. Portraits spoke to him, asked why a Potter roamed the Manor, if he was related to Dorea, if the business with the mudbloods had finished. Some seemed disappointed at the lack of gore, others expressed relief that no more “filth” dirtied their home, prisoners or not. 

He paused at one of them, a beautiful painting of a young woman, hair blond enough to be a Malfoy, and long enough to double or triple her height. It was a large portrait, taller than him, and he gaped.

“What is it?” the woman asked, winding the end of her hair around her finger. 

“Um,” said Harry. “You have...a lot of hair.”

“Yes, wrong end of a Hair Growth Curse. Took years to break. I’d cut it and it’d grow back twice the length,” she sniffed, dropping her hair with a refined flick. 

“Ah,” Harry said sympathetically. “Something like that happened to me once, when my aunt tried to shave off all of mine.”

“Did it really?” the girl asked with mild interest. She had a bit of a pointy chin, but bright eyes. “With hair like that, I can hardly blame her. At least mine isn’t a nest, too long or not.”

“Thanks,” Harry replied dryly. It said something about pureblood uppityness that he found this portrait one of the more pleasant and approachable ones in the house. “Say, you haven’t happened to see Malfoy around, have you? The house elf brought me in to see him, but I’ve been waiting a long time.”

“He’s in his room,” she responded. “Or at least one of them is, I don’t know where the other went.” 

Azkaban, Harry thought, surprised that she didn’t know since he’d heard other portraits mention Lucius’s imprisonment, but he didn’t want to be the one to tell her.

“Er, could you point me in the right direction?” he asked when she didn’t seem inclined to continue. 

The portrait studied him assessingly, looking down her nose at him and reminding him even more of Lucius. Yes, he definitely didn’t want to be the one to tell her that the “other one” had been tossed into Azkaban, she was probably the git’s great-great-who-knew-how-many-greats-grandmother.

“I suppose if you leave your wand on that table there, I could let you up to see him,” she said eventually. “Terribly poor manners to keep your guest waiting. I don’t know where pureblood propriety has gone.”

“Well,” Harry stalled, not wanting to give up his wand in a place that made him so uneasy. Then he had an idea, a somewhat dishonest one, but he’d hardly attack the kid or anything, so he didn’t feel too guilty.

“I’ll get it back, right?” he checked, because he didn’t want to lose it, even if it didn’t belong to him.

“Of course,” the woman sniffed, offended. “The House of Malfoy does not need to steal any wands, we win them.”

Harry tried not to fidget visibly at the words stealing wands as he placed Cepheus’s wand on the mahogany table. He figured he could double back for it once he’d found the boy. His own wand felt warm in his pocket, and he caught himself before he gave a guilty twitch. 

“Can you tell me where he is now?” he asked, trying to keep his voice as polite as possible in the face of her Malfoy-ish poshness. 

“Hmm,” she said, eying him suspiciously. “I suppose.”

To Harry’s surprise, the portrait swung forward, revealing a spiraling staircase, reminiscent of the one that led to Gryffindor tower. He’d thought that only Hogwarts had passages hidden behind portraits, but he supposed that would be a presumptuous thing to assume, given how many people had gone to the school and been influenced by its architecture. 

“Oh,” he said in astonishment. “Thanks.”

And he started up the stairs. And kept going. And going. And going. 

And going.

Harry climbed for long minutes, jogging at first and then slowing to a steady but tiring pace. He wondered if the portrait had sent him into some sort of cursed room, a never ending staircase meant to trap trespassers in the Malfoy Manor.

He was growing more panicked as that idea grew less ridiculous with each step, his legs aching and his scalp sweating uncomfortably, when finally he reached the end. He stumbled into the room, and drew up short when he came across its occupant. He found himself staring at the back of a blond head that most definitely didn't belong to Cepheus. The person spoke without turning around.

“Is Mother upset again?" the blond asked wearily. "I can brew you another Calming Draught, but you should take it down to her yourself, I don’t think– Who the hell are you?”

Harry gaped openly at the person in front of him, a young boy—man—around his age. He looked like a younger Lucius with shorter hair. For a wild moment he thought the older man had escaped and taken some sort of De-aging Potion.

“Who are you?” Harry blurted with equal confusion, hand on his wand, but refrained from drawing it at the last second. 

Upon closer inspection, he could see differences in the jawbone, the nose, even the lips. It was just the overall demeanor which had struck such a familiar chord, the way that they held themselves and the aristocratic mien. 

Despite the disparities, they obviously shared lineage; bloody hell, the guy looked more like Lucius than Cepheus.

The boy's face shuttered. "You come storming into my room and have the nerve to demand who I am?"

"Your room?" Harry asked in surprise, since that implied that he lived here. With apprehension, he remembered how Moaning Myrtle had claimed the first floor bathroom as her own. "You're not a ghost or something, right?" 

He eyed the boy with dread; he’d gone without an attempt on his life since the Battle of Hogwarts, and now he wondered how he'd never heard of Malfoy's secret cousin, or whoever this man would turn out to be. A sudden thought occurred to him, a terrible idea spurred by memories of a solidifying teenage Riddle. 

He prayed to whatever magical gods were out there that some ancient Malfoy relative hadn’t made a horcrux. Maybe he was just a vampire; those lived a long time, which explained why Harry hadn't seen him at Hogwarts despite his young appearance. He was certainly pale enough. 

"What are you, a muggleborn?" the possible vampire sniffed haughtily. Definitely related to the Malfoys. "I'm obviously solid. How did you get Raiponce to let you up, anyway?”

“Rey-puns?” Harry asked, confused, the foreign name pronounced oddly, sounding French.

“Raiponce,” the blond drawled condescendingly, correcting his admittedly butchered pronunciation. Harry belatedly realized the boy must be talking about the portrait. “Were you hit with a deafening jynx, or are you just stupid?"

"Shove off," Harry snapped defensively, crossing his arms and feeling rather dim-witted in the face of the boy’s sharp words.

"Stupid it is," the git concluded dismissively. "Well then, did you actually want something, or did she just take a fancy to you? It’s rude to wander around people’s homes without an escort, you know." 

Harry narrowed his eyes, but behind his smug attitude, the blond did appear to have a hint of genuine curiosity in his eyes, and a touch of wariness. Harry felt some of the anger drain out of him; of course he'd be tetchy when a stranger came bursting into his room. The house had just barely escaped the control of a madman a few months ago.

A paranoid part of Harry wondered if he’d stumbled across a Death Eater in hiding, but the man hadn't made any aggressive moves, and he had a point. Harry shouldn’t be snooping around the Manor or intruding upon his private quarters. 

"Er," he managed, running a hand through his hair. "Look, I think we got off on the wrong foot. I am sorry for bursting in like this...I was looking for Cepheus. I'm Harry," he said awkwardly, and then stuck out his hand.

The blond looked down at in distaste, before returning to his face. After Harry’s fidgeting with his hair earlier, his forehead showed, and the boy’s eyes flickered briefly to his scar. It was such a short glance, though, that Harry almost wondered whether he hadn’t recognized it.

The boy glanced one last time at his hand, something odd flashing across his expression, and he turned away without shaking it. Harry clenched his hand into a fist, drawing back his arm and flushing angrily.

"Look, I said I was sorry-"

"And I'd rather not have you demanding my own apology later, when you realize who you shook hands with," the boy said sourly, chin up proudly as he wandered to the window, looking out at the grounds far below. "Draco Malfoy, by the way. Run along now, I have better things to do than talk to you."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Harry asked, piqued at the dismissal, and more than a little puzzled. 

Why would Harry not want to shake his hand? He had been the one to offer. Maybe he wanted to hide the Dark Mark and thought Harry would attack him? But he'd given up his name readily enough, and Harry had never heard of any Draco Malfoy, not at school, and not on the list of at-large or acquitted followers of Voldemort. 

He received no answer. Draco Malfoy's pale skin looked healthier in the sunlight, but he kept his face firmly facing the window instead of him, so finally Harry gave an exasperated huff, turning on his heel. He dreaded climbing the long set of stairs again. 

"I wouldn't mention our meeting to Cepheus," Draco called after him resentfully, and Harry paused at the door. "Or anyone, really. Terribly awkward business."

Harry peered back at him, but Draco still didn't glance up. Harry thought he looked bitter and maybe just a little bit sad.

"Right," Harry said slowly. "You're not going to tell me why?"

Silence. He sighed. He turned to go again, but he felt an inexplicable bout of sympathy for the antagonistic wizard. He looked lonely.

"Well, see you then," Harry offered hesitantly, and Draco snorted.

Harry started down the stairs with a scowl, stung at his rejected peace offering, but behind him, he heard a quiet, "I doubt that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh ho ho, but why is it such a terribly awkward business?
> 
> …I don’t know if it’s totally obvious, but I’d love to hear your guesses. Or lack of guesses. Or just what you think! :D


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Draco Malfoy is a WHAT?

Harry returned to the parlour he’d been left in originally, and not a moment too soon. Cepheus came in several minutes later, looking tired and wary.

“I apologize for the wait,” he said stiffly. He avoided his eyes, his hands clenched in fists. He looked too old and too tired to be thirteen. Harry supposed war did that to people.

“It’s all right,” he reassured him, feeling exhausted all of a sudden. The war had taken its toll on everyone. “I’ve, um. I’ve brought your wand.”

“Oh,” Cepheus breathed, his head snapping up, blue eyes wide and somewhat wild. “You’d give it back?”

He looked so hopeful, but also distrustful, as if he expected Harry to shout ‘just kidding!’ and laugh in his face. Once again he remembered that Voldemort would have done just that, and thrown in a Cruciatus curse for the perfect punchline. Harry felt sick.

“Yeah, it’s right here,” Harry said, forcing his anger down. No reason to take it out on the kid. He fumbled in his pocket, where he’d placed it after leaving Draco’s tower. “Sorry about keeping it for so long.”

He held out the wand with an open palm, as unthreatening as possible. Cepheus inched forward, looking between Harry and the wand, and then snatched it up and darted back as soon as he drew close enough. He glanced at Harry, as though unsure at the sincerity of the offer.

When he looked down at his wand, he looked so relieved and pleased, Harry knew he had done the right thing.

“Why would you do this for me?” Cepheus asked, his voice small. 

Harry remembered the kid speaking loudly at the Triwizard Tournament, charming a bunch of buttons to say ‘Potter Stinks!’. They’d gotten annoying, but looking back, he could almost find it entertaining. The buttons had been rather clever, appearing just after Christmas, and it was hard to hate an immature first-year for such a juvenile joke.

He’d been a brat, but Harry would have preferred that to Cepheus’s complete bewilderment as to why someone would help him without asking for anything in return.

“It’s the right thing to do,” Harry shrugged. “Hey, it’ll make a good story for later, right? That’s the wand that beat the Dark Lord.”

He almost regretted his flippant comment, but to his relief, the kid’s lips twitched, and he regarded his wand with awe when he looked back down.

“Thank you,” Cepheus murmured. The words sounded strange on his lips, as though he didn’t say it very often.

“No problem,” said Harry, and felt unsure how to proceed at the silence that followed. “I guess I should be going.”

Cepheus nodded, still staring at his wand. He pushed up his glasses, abruptly anxious to leave, unnerved by the mansion and the pureblood boy who really was still a boy, despite all the brattiness and galleons and Death Eater father.

He turned to leave, but as he did, the sunlight filtering through the window caught Cepheus’s golden hair, and his morose expression suddenly reminded Harry of the man in the tower. 

“There’s...does anyone else live here?” Harry asked, half a step from the door. Unlike Draco, Cepheus lifted his gaze to look at him. “Besides your mother, I mean.”

Cepheus paused, shoulders tense, and his distrustful gaze returned. “No. It’s just us. Why?”

“No reason,” Harry said hurriedly. He remembered Draco’s words about not telling Cepheus about their meeting, and for some reason he took the advice. “Just curious. I’ll be going then.”

He darted out the door before he could receive a response. The mystery of the lie drove him mad with curiosity, but he somehow felt that he couldn’t ask outright, at least not of the Malfoys. It was like the sorcerer’s stone; he’d found clue that he shouldn’t have, and since others wanted the matter left untouched, he could only solve it by piecing together the hints. He’d ask Ron or Hermione if they knew; he thought that Hermione, at least, had studied the pureblood genealogies, and Ron had grown up around them. He knew a lot about the Malfoys even though he hated them, what with his father seeing Lucius at the ministry.

The house elf from earlier appeared to show him out, her floppy ears reminding him painfully of Dobby, stabbed in this very mansion by the sister of its mistress. After asking the house elf’s name, he made a point of thanking Socky kindly before heading for the gate. He tugged his scarf closer as a frigid breeze blew down the back of his neck, the world peculiarly clear in the winter air.

He couldn’t resist one look back, peeking at the tower on the far left, wondering if Draco was watching him leave.

 

ooo

 

Harry sat in the Burrow on the living room couch, sandwiched between Bill and Hermione. Ron sprawled across the seat on Hermione’s other side. He had his own flat, but given that he was taking time off from the world, he had plenty of time to visit. Truthfully, he felt rather useless and restless, spending time reading or playing Quidditch or moping around the house, while Hermione and Ron both worked towards careers, but unlike his friends, crowds mobbed him every time he left the house. He had to disguise himself when he went out, and if he wanted to work as an Auror, they’d demanded that he wait before joining, simply because when he tried to join the training program earlier, it had caused such a media sensation that nothing had gotten accomplished.

So Harry tried to occupy himself with catching up on seventh year schoolwork and flying, visiting the Weasley’s when he could.

Today he took the opportunity to ask the question that had nagged him for over a week, ever since he visited Malfoy Manor. The room had a genial atmosphere, so Harry didn’t think anyone would pay them any undue attention. He’d learned the hard way in fifth year that a quiet bar—or a quiet Weasley home—didn’t guarantee privacy any more than a boisterous one. 

“Have you guys ever heard of a Draco Malfoy?” Harry asked during a lull in his friend’s bickering. “Young, maybe around our age?”

“No, why?” Ron asked without giving it much thought. Harry managed not to frown at the flippant response.

“I met him, the other day. I’d never seen him at Hogwarts, though, and I’d never heard of any other Malfoys.”

“I thought Cepheus was the Malfoy heir,” Hermione said, her brow furrowing. “Is there another branch I’m unaware of? It wasn’t in any of the genealogies I studied...Are you sure, Harry?”

“The Malfoys only have one branch,” Ron said. “And one heir. They don’t like splitting up all that gold, you know, and if they had more kids, they’d probably start killing each other off-”

“ _ Ron _ ald,” Hermione interrupted, appalled. 

“No, I’m sure he was a Malfoy,” Harry said confidently. “He had the blond hair and everything. He looked just like Lucius and Cepheus.”

“Really?” Hermione said, looking intrigued. “Where did you meet him?”

“Well,” Harry said, giving a cursory glance and lowering his voice. “That’s the thing. When I went to give Cepheus his wand, I got a bit lost, and found Draco holed up in a tower. And later, when I asked if anyone else lived there, Cepheus said no. He was lying; he had to be.”

“I wonder...” Hermione said, lowering her voice to a whisper. “You don’t think he could be...you know...Lucius Malfoy’s son, but not his...son through  _ marriage _ ?”

“Lucius Malfoy has a bastard spawn?” Ron exclaimed in shock, too loudly. They caught a stern glance from Molly, but otherwise the room returned to their own conversations. Fleur spoke steadily with Ginny, but a bored-looking Bill seemed more interested in their exchange.

“What’s this about Malfoy spawn?” he asked curiously, brushing his hair back and revealing more of his scarred face. 

“Harry found a Draco Malfoy locked up in a tower,” Ron said bluntly, before Harry got a chance to tell him what Draco had said about not mentioning him.

“Draco Malfoy,” Bill repeated thoughtfully, and after a moment his eyes widened. “Wait, really? Are you sure, Harry?”

“Why does everybody keep asking me that,” Harry grumbled, although he was intrigued that Bill seemed to know something.

“I guess you were too young to remember, Ron,” Bill said. “But actually, the Malfoys had a son before Cepheus. It was a big deal, since they’re one of the sacred twenty-eight. I think it happened around the time you were born... It was a big scandal, really.”

“He  _ is _ the bastard kid, then?” Ron asked incredulously, on the edge of his seat. As Ginny’s brother and Arthur’s son, Ron hated Lucius even more than Harry did.

“No, not at all,” said Bill. He took a sip of his drink. “He was a squib.”

Harry’s mouth dropped open. Ron spewed his own drink all across Hermione.

“They denied it, of course,” Bill continued, oblivious to the disturbance, caught up in reliving the old gossip. “No accidental magic to speak of, but they kept it on the down-low, and it didn’t become official until just before you started at Hogwarts. I guess that’s why you never heard the rumors, since people started gossiping about Harry Potter entering as a first-year instead.”

“So they had another child just so that they could have a magical heir?” Hermione asked, outraged and horrified. Harry found himself agreeing with her; they’d had another kid, and then pretended that the unfavored one didn’t exist.

He disturbingly found himself reminded of the Dursleys.

“Sure,” Bill said easily. “That’s why I was so surprised you saw him, Harry. The kid disappeared around that time, in an ‘accident’, and we all thought that the Malfoys had done away with him. These days they usually obliviate the squibs and give ‘em to muggles, if they really don’t want them, but the Malfoys always were one of the more traditional families. They’d kept him too long, hoping he’d turn out magical after all, and it’s always messy to obliviate kids once they’re past a certain age.”

“They would kill squibs?” Hermione whispered. “Or throw them away?”

“Well, some families,” Bill confirmed. “Other families keep them around.”

“I’ve always wondered if it’s nicer to obliviate them,” Ron pondered idly. “It must be awful, growing up around all that magic and knowing you can’t use it. It’s kind of like rubbing it in their face.”

“Mum’s got a second cousin who’s a squib,” Bill reminded him. “He seems to be doing all right as a Muggle Accounter, or whatnot. Actually, I’m not sure how he’s doing. Mum and her family don’t like to mention him.”

“An accountant,” Hermione corrected automatically, her voice faint. 

Now that he thought about it, he did seem to recall a Weasley family squib mentioned in passing. He'd never given it much thought.

It suddenly seemed much more real after meeting Draco, and finding out his identity. A Weasley squib had been a rather harmless idea, what with their liberal perspectives. But perhaps even they weren't as open-minded as they seemed, and a Malfoy family squib was even less agreeable or dismissible. 

Harry thought back to Draco. It didn’t make sense; he’d definitely made a snide comment about muggleborns. He’d been so  _ haughty _ .

But replaying the encounter with more detail, Harry began to notice little details that he’d not pieced together before. The portrait had made him leave his wand outside the door. Cepheus had insisted that he and his mother were the occupants of the house, yet Draco had clearly mistaken Harry for Cepheus when he’d entered the room.

He’d mentioned brewing a Calming Draught for “ _ Mother” _ . 

Cepheus presumably shared Draco's mother, and if Draco was a  _ Malfoy... _ of course he couldn't be an illegitimate child. Harry felt rather stupid. He pieced together all the hints now, but he supposed it made little sense to do so after the fact.

“Can squibs brew potions?” Harry blurted out. Ron and Bill were still musing about their second cousin, and Hermione looked pale.

“Hm,” Bill said, considering the question. “Some of them, I think. It depends. Some squibs have an affinity with kneazles or another magical creature, and most can see things that muggles can’t, like dementors, Hogwarts, and Diagon Alley. I think I’ve heard of a few squibs who could brew potions, although they can’t do the ones that need a wand, obviously. There’s only a few potions that need one, though.”

“Oh,” Harry said dumbly.

“Oh,” repeated Hermione, softer. Ron looked at them both strangely, as though he couldn’t fathom their discomfort.

Harry stared down at his drink.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Interested in **FASTER CHAPTERS**? There's an app you can use at [**this link**](https://inkitt.app.link/ff_crystia):
> 
> https://inkitt.app.link/ff_crystia
> 
> You can find my stories there, and get a SNEAK PREVIEW at that site! And by preview, I mean entire chapters. WHOO! (username still Crystia)


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